Broken Crossroads (Knights of the Shadows Book 1)

by LeClerc, Patrick

  “My thanks,” she murmured, sliding coins across the cluttered table. “I do appreciate your finding this for me.”

  “No thanks are necessary, my dear.” The old man smiled. “You've added to my collection enough that I'm happy to mine it for you.”

  She left the sage and wandered for a while, thinking.

  Whether or not the legend were true, the Jarvings obviously believed it. Conn would see that as reason enough to take it from them. Discrete inquiries as to the whereabouts of the Jarvings left her convinced that she couldn't simply re-burgle the Orb. Well, not quickly enough. Given a week, she could set something up, but they'd be gone tomorrow.

  Should she tell Conn? Wait a day and tell him when it was too late? If he learned the truth, he'd rush in and get himself killed.

  He was the only partner she'd ever actually trusted. The obvious thing would be to lie to him. For some reason, that frightened her.

  She was terrified that he would discover the truth, and that his trust in her would be destroyed. She was a bit surprised that it mattered to her. Trust was something she had gotten by very well without. She didn't trust anyone really, and most of her contacts didn't trust her, beyond trusting her to do her job well. That had always been enough.

  She cursed. Whatever she did, she risked losing a real partner. Someone who would always have her back, who wouldn't cut and run with her share, who wouldn't betray her for a quick gain.

  Well, then, she thought, let's screw it up doing right by him and not wrong.

  * * *

  Later that evening, Conn sat in his school, cleaning weapons. Ioresh had done a decent job keeping up the classes. He gave the lad a few coins and the evening off, extracting only the promise that the boy would spend the money wisely on women and drink and not buy a sword and join a mercenary company. As he wiped an oiled rag across a blade, he briefly pondered his hypocrisy in fighting so hard to keep Ioresh from a soldier's life while sliding back towards it himself. Unable to defend his position rationally, and unhappy lying to himself, he fell back on the last defense of nobles, priests and parents. This was different.

  After a second mug of ale, he was comfortable with that.

  He heard the sound of pouring behind him and turned to see Trilisean helping herself to a cup of wine from his cupboard. Her face was etched with concern, her usual bantering look gone. She sat down wordlessly at the table across from him.

  “Evening, lass,” he said. “Didn't hear you come in.”

  “Thanks,” she replied softly.

  “Got some news on your friends,” she said in the same dead monotone. She paused for a sip. “And the Orb. It's a seer's stone. Lets you see things far off.”

  “Like the movements of armies,” he said quietly.

  She nodded. “They've chartered a ship. The Strongbow. It's on the last slip at Long Wharf. They leave tonight. At midnight when the tide goes out.”

  “My thanks, lass.”

  “There are six soldiers and one sorcerer. I don't know how powerful he is, but he's been able to disguise them all.”

  He nodded.

  “You can't beat them all,” she looked at him, her face neutral but her eyes pleading. “Can't you drum up some of your old soldier buddies?”

  “No time. My old company's out in the field. Nobody who didn't know me well would believe this.”

  “So, track down your company and tell them. At least they'll know. If you go off and get killed, that solves nothing. You can't beat them all together.”

  “I don't have to. I just have to get the Orb away from them.”

  She stared into her wine.

  “My share of the loot is in a chest upstairs under the bed,” he said. “Leave the lad enough to keep the school going. I'd leave you a key, but I won't insult you.”

  Trilisean bit her lip. There was no way she was going along. She had rehearsed her refusal a hundred times. Still, Conn's not asking still cut deep. She wouldn’t think of going on hopeless, suicidal quest without inviting him. She nodded.

  “Good luck.”

  When he looked up, she was gone.

  * * *

  Conn stood in the shadow of a warehouse near the edge of the pier, swathed in a threadbare cloak. Beneath it he wore a shirt of mail and held a long cut and thrust sword close to his leg. At his right hip was his short, heavy infantry sword, at his left a long dirk. He didn't carry his shield, as it would be too obvious should anyone see his silhouette. He waited in the darkness, emptying his mind of thoughts of the coming fight, breathing in the salt air and listening to the creak of boats as they bobbed in the swells and the scuttling of rats among the crates and barrels nearby.

  This was it. He couldn't let them reach the ship. The sorcerer would be carrying the stone, of that he was certain. That had to go into the drink. Then, even if the warriors cut him to ribbons, he'd have won. Oh, he'd cut a few before he went and make an end that would be worthy of song.

  Not that anyone would sing it, but he'd know. Enough of his countrymen had died with no verse to celebrate their struggle. The old songs had to stand for new generations of Sons of Aeran and their sacrifices. That would be enough.

  He heard the soft sound of boots on the cobbles and saw a swinging lantern approaching through the evening mist. He stretched his muscles and composed himself to fight. The harsh clipped chatter of Jarving speech reached his ears as the small group approached.

  He smiled a cold, grim smile. Soon.

  The group came abreast of his position. They walked in formation, two burly, well armed men in front, well ahead, then two more flanking a shorter, older man, then two more behind.

  Damn.

  No way to get at the sorcerer quickly, and none of the soldiers were weighed down with bags. They all moved lightly, warily. Their hands hovered near their short, wide, slightly curved swords.

  He let most of them pass by, holding his breath and melting into the night, then, as the last pair of fighters came up beside him, he exploded into action.

  He stepped out from the wall, bringing his sword up in an arc that intersected the throat of the closest Jarving, the edge connecting just above the right collar bone and singing through to exit below the left side of the man's jaw. The Jarving stumbled sideways into his comrade, fountaining blood. As the second man moved to avoid the falling soldier and draw his blade, the Aeransman lunged with the shortsword in his left hand, driving the point through the man's leather jerkin and into his chest.

  At the sound of the first scuff of booted feet on cobbles, rather than the even tread of the march, the other soldiers drew their swords and spun around, closing about the sorcerer and backing away from the lightning fast shadowy form that sped towards them, gleaming blades throwing gore.

  Conn cursed. Two down, but now it was five to one, surprise was lost. He'd hoped to drop the rearmost enemy, then catch the wizard before the others could react. No such luck.

  They were good. He admitted that. He hadn't expected them to be ready so quickly. He moved in anyway, hoping to keep the initiative before they realized he was alone.

  He darted in, cutting at the next soldier, but the man parried and flicked a kick at him. Conn backpedaled, feinted with his shortsword to discourage pursuit, and turned to launch an attack at a second Jarving. He feigned a cut at the man's head, changed it to a slanting downward cut to the man's knee when the Jarving went for the high parry. His blade bit and the man collapsed, rolling on the cobbles and clutching his injured leg in agony.

  Conn stepped away, leaving the wounded man as the other three, now confident they faced only one foe, moved around to screen the sorcerer.

  They fought defensively, keeping him in check until they could make their numbers count. Conn was certain if he backed off they wouldn't pursue, but as long as he hovered near, they tried to coordinate attacks, surround him and cut him down. For soldiers famed for heavy infantry formation fighting, these Jarvings adapted to a back-alley brawl remarkably fast. One of them pulled a beard
ed axe from his belt and wielded it left handed, trying to hook the Aeransman's blade with it while cutting with his sword. A second drew a long, slim, thrusting dagger. The third, taller and leaner, fought with a single sword, using his reach and powerful sweeping slashes to keep Conn at bay.

  Conn circled and backed, fending off attacks, trying to move so that the enemy would get in one another's way, so that he could break through to the sorcerer, or land a telling blow to reduce the odds.

  * * *

  Trilisean drifted through the night aimlessly, her thoughts an angry swirl. She was angry with Conn for rushing off on this fool's crusade to save an army that had betrayed him, and she was angry with herself, irrationally she knew, for not being there with him.

  The war had been going on for years, neither side able to win decisively, and she doubted this would be any different, new weapon or no. And even if it was, that meant little to her. There would always be a place to go, and always be something to steal, someone who wanted something that didn't belong to them, enough to pay well for it.

  She'd heard that if the Jarvings won, they'd enslave the people. Ha! Let anyone try. She been a slave once, and not to the Jarvings, so they didn't seem any crueler than any other masters. Why on earth should she care about this fight? Why should she risk her favorite skin against such long odds for the Kingdom of Grian?

  The sound of shouts and the ring of steel on steel carried to her on the ocean breeze. She realized her wanderings had taken her near the docks.

  Conn must be doing his best to achieve a glorious death. Well, if that's more important to him.

  Dammit. She sighed.

  She made a quick check of her various concealed pointy objects, then, against all better judgment, sped off into the shadows toward the sounds.

  * * *

  The sorcerer had not been idle. Recovering from the initial surprise, slower, perhaps, than the trained warriors of his guard, he realized that the threat was one swordsman. He shoved the satchel containing the orb around to his back, out of the way, and began drawing on his power to aid his allies.

  He reached into one of many small pouches on his belt, seizing a handful of powder. He held it to his lips, breathed words of power into it, and after a few passages with his hands, cast it over the soldier with the axe.

  The warrior with the sword and dagger made a cut at Conn, who parried with his longer blade, then stepped to the man's right, out of range of the dagger in the soldier's left hand, and thrust his shortsword at the man's side. The Jarving twisted and tried to disengage his sword for a parry, but only managed to get his arm in the way, so instead of his side, the Aeransman's sword tore into his right arm. He grunted and dropped his weapon.

  As the other two Jarvings rushed at him, Conn stepped away from his wounded foe, a slow smile spreading as he whittled down the odds. Suddenly, the Jarving with the sword and axe shimmered and flowed, and then there were three of him!

  Cold sweat sprang up on his neck as Conn forced a curse through clenched teeth. How could he fight this sorcery? As he backed away from the ensorcelled trio of axemen, the other Jarving struck at his weapon, bringing his heavy sword down in a wide powerful blow on the forte of Conn's shortsword, smashing the weapon from his stinging fingers.

  He backed away again, sweeping his long blade in a defensive arc, batting aside a cut from one of the many shimmering ensorcelled foes. He tried to get around the enemy flank, to get a good cut in at the big Jarving with the single sword, but the newly numerous enemy shifted smoothly around to block him. He parried another blow on his sword as he clawed for his dirk with his left hand.

  * * *

  Trilisean watched from the shadows as the sorcerer began to make passes in the air. His back was to her, not twenty feet away.

  Easy as cheating a blind man at cards, she thought, slipping a flat-handled throwing knife from her sleeve and taking aim between the man’s narrow shoulders.

  As the dagger sped toward the Jarving sorcerer's back, there was a flash and it veered away a foot before striking him. The man spun to face this new threat, barking a phrase in some arcane language and casting his hands outward.

  Kerra damn all wizards! thought Trilisean, tucking and rolling forward instinctively as a gout of flame passed over her, scorching the wall where she had just stood.

  * * *

  Conn swept his sword in a frantic circular parry, trying to deflect two thrusts and sidestep a cut. His sword caught one Jarving blade but passed through the second, which struck his left hand. The phantom blade made no cut and drew no blood, but a cold pain spread from the point of contact and his hand hung limp, the hilt of the dirk slipping from his grip.

  The three identical Jarvings smiled as they saw this. The big man and the wounded warrior a moment later when they realized what had happened.

  How in the four hells do I fight this? Conn wondered, wishing for the creature at the temple again.

  * * *

  As the heat of the flame passed over her, Trilisean rolled up to her feet, flipping a knife underhand at the sorcerer and springing off to his right. He flinched involuntarily as the blade flew at him, but hurled a second bolt of flame, narrowly missing the swift, shadowy form before him.

  She watched intently as the second dagger struck the invisible shield. It too, glanced away, but the flash was weaker, and when the blade clattered to the cobbles, it seemed that the sorcerer was sharper in her vision, the details of his robes less dimmed by a shadow she hadn't noticed until it was absent.

  Her leap brought her near a wall. As the wizard again pointed at her, she leapt up and kicked off it straight toward him.

  A bolt of dark energy smacked into the wall, sizzling on the fog-dampened stone, but she was no longer there.

  He flung another spell as the thief flew toward him, but it went high as she dropped to the street five feet from him. He danced backward, frantically chanting.

  Trilisean, drawing on her training as an acrobat, ended her leap with a roll over the last few yards, then smoothly came up on one knee before the sorcerer, slipping a dagger up under his breastbone before tumbling past, spinning to face him with another blade drawn.

  The sorcerer grunted, clutching at the blade still in his chest. His lips moved, but a trickle of blood rather than words of power came forth as he sank to his knees then slumped to the cobbles.

  * * *

  Conn switched from frantic defense to a desperate lunge, surprising the big swordsman and catching him in the chest with his point. The man grunted, but continued forward, slashing wildly.

  Suddenly, the three mirrored Jarvings shimmered and flowed together. As the one resultant foe paused in confusion, Conn dropped to one knee beneath a slash from the wounded man and lashed out, cutting the leg out from under the Jarving with the axe.

  “I have it!” shouted Trilisean, holding the sorcerer's satchel by its cut strap. “Let's go!”

  Conn took stock. Two Jarvings were rolling on the street with bad leg wounds, two lay still, one faced him with a limply hanging right arm and a long knife in his left, but he seemed inclined more to defense than attack. The big man still came on slashing, but he was stumbling now and blood stained his tunic from the wound in his chest. As his breath hissed through clenched teeth, it brought bloody bubbles.

  The Aeransman felt content to call it a day. He retreated, knocked aside a final blow from the big Jarving as the man wheezed toward him, then bolted off into the night.

  * * *

  Conn sat once more at the table in his school, raising an eyebrow at the steaming mug Trilisean set before him.

  “This is what he said?”

  She shrugged. “The healers I talked to had never heard of such a wound, but a loremaster I know says this should work. If the spell that created the wound exists, he said. He likes to hedge his bets.”

  “I'll trust it then, as I feel confident that the spell exists.” He took the mug in his good hand and drank it, wincing at the bitter taste. “Thanks ag
ain, lass, for saving me back there.”

  She brushed off the comment. “Least I could do.”

  “What'd you do with the orb?”

  “That loremaster I mentioned. He says he's going to try to see other libraries. If it works.”

  “Bit of a skeptic, is he?”

  “He reads a lot. And a lot of what's written is lies and exaggerations.” She shrugged. “So he claims. It's

  harmless enough in his hands if it does work, and that should make him happy.”

  “Is it safe in with him?”

  “I doubt anyone could find anything in there, let alone steal it.”

  He nodded, satisfied.

  “What'd you get for it?”

  “Nothing,” she replied. “He took it in exchange for finding that antidote. Don't look so shocked. I'd already sold it once.”

  “Thanks again. I don't think I could've gotten out of that one on my own. I owe you.”

  “Don't worry about it. You're too good a partner to lose. It'd take weeks to replace you.” She smiled. “And I do so enjoy having you owe me.”

  The Gathering Storm

  EMAIN II, BARON AND OVERLORD of Laimrig, reclined on a divan and accepted a cup of wine from the slave girl who knelt before him. Another removed his sandals and rubbed his feet while a third sat on a low stool and read from a scroll detailing the latest petitions to his court.

  All three were young and beautiful, clad mostly in jewelry, scented oils and cosmetics, with an occasional garment of translucent silk, carefully designed to accent rather than conceal their charms.